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Mike and Art's table is next. They've got an assortment. Nag Champa incense. Gemstone framed under glass. Cale in a plastic cooler. Thistley-looking things that turn out to be baby artichokes.
Mike and Art don't seem all that paranoid but we noticed that the paranoid lady was briefing them as we walked up. We wonder if she's going to follow us everywhere. Mike says they have four thousand apple trees just north of Elfrida. "Apple juice," giggles the paranoid woman. "The best apple juice in the world." "Some people think of it as an elixir," sez Mike. "And hydrophonic tomatoes," sez the paranoid woman, giggling some more. "They sound like water?" we ask. They both look a little blank. "No, that's how they're grown," says Mike. "Hydroponic," we explain to the paranoid woman - and suddenly, in a flash, raise the camera in her direction. "Here, let's take your picture." She winces a little. "Just kidding," we say.
And so on. We chatted with Asante Riverwind and Jean Eisenhower who arrived late and were furiously putting together an ambitious-looking display. We passed by lots of other stands where the vendors seemed too busy to talk, but we'll try to cover them in a later article. We talked to the Philadelphia soft pretzel guy briefly and reminisced about our old days in Philly when we were teens and thought we were grown up. The pretzel guy, whose name is Les, has a certificate on his cart that says his pretzels won the Philadelphia Mayor's cup. It also reads Best
of Philly 1994, 1995, 1996, Now, we know that Philadelphia Magazine is definitely no slouch, although the slouchiness of the mayor can be said to vary from term to term. But soft pretzels are far too important an issue to Philadelphians to introduce partisan politics into.
And we talked with Shannon and Cambria, who have a stand full of tie-dyed stuff. Including tie-dyed socks. We missed tie-dye the first time around, and we're still puzzled about why these young folks who weren't even been born yet in the sixties are into being hippies. The last thing we wanted to do when we were kids was anything that our parents did. But the socks are cool. "I'm wearing a pair of their socks," says a voice, and we look up to see Art standing there smiling - Art, of Mike and Art, with the Nag Champa and cale and four thousand trees - and sure enough when we come around the table and look down there they are - the socks, not the trees - tucked into soft black slippers. "Right on," we say, and we're on our way back to the car. Not quite yet, though. We stop to take a shot of K-a-t-h-r-y-n, eight-and-a-half-year-old rosemary vendor, and chat with her dad for a moment. It's been a nice morning.
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